Outside the Lines (5 page)

When I knock, not surprisingly, he doesn't answer. I turn the knob and find it unlocked, as usual. I barely peek through the narrow crack, prepared to close the door and walk away if anything sordid is happening inside. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch movement to my right, and when I squint that direction, I see muscles ripple over his broad back as he pulls himself up in rapid, wide-gripped chin-ups from the bar he's rigged under the loft where I know his queen-sized mattress sits. The loft is eight feet off the concrete floor with a set of steep wooden stairs that lead up to it. He's curtained it off with woven tapestries he found at some yard sale off-island, making it into the only “room” in the space. His sanctum. He never brings women up there, except me. I've slept here a few times when I was afraid to leave him alone, right after he got back.

Safe in the knowledge that he's alone, I step inside and close the door behind me. Along the back wall, he's installed kitchen cabinets, a stove and a sink, and his refrigerator sits in an alcove between the cabinets and a built-in table and bench. The kitchen is always spotless. I know his mom brings him meals from her diner next door, or I'd worry about whether he was eating. Under the loft, which is to the right of the kitchen, he's got his gym set up. In addition to the chin-up bar, there's a weight bench with racks of free weights, and a heavy hanging bag that he uses for kickboxing. At the end, there's a dresser and some hooks on the wall that serve as his closet. There are a few pairs of jeans hung on them and two black suits for this new job he got at some security place. I pretend not to notice the handcuffs, chains, and leather straps hanging from a metal grate against the wall.

Along the wall across from that is his “living room,” with stereo equipment he spent a small fortune on in a cabinet next to a couch, which points at a flat-screen TV mounted to the wall over his only source of heat—a woodstove.

He drops to the floor after about thirty reps, and I call his name. He must not hear me over the music, though, because a second later he jumps back up, this time in an underhand grip, and starts again.

I move to the stereo, which he's wired to a Bose speaker setup that would put any major Miami dance club to shame, and turn down the volume.

He lets go with one hand and swings around to face me, then grins and does his best chimpanzee impression, scratching his armpit and making monkey noises. He drops to the floor and ape shuffles over where I'm standing, dragging his knuckles on the floor. Before I can get out of his way, he tackles me onto his couch and sits next to me. He wraps his beefy bicep over my shoulder, pinning me under all two hundred pounds of that buff six-foot frame.

He nuzzles his face into my hair. “You smell good, Ade. New shampoo?”

I grab his arm and peel it away from me. “No, and you reek, so get off.”

He grins. “So, anyone I need to beat the shit out of this week?”

Rob's face flashes in my mind. “No.”

“Good,” he says, wrapping his arm around me again and tugging me close. He tips his forehead into mine and stares into my eyes, and I can see all the demons swimming just below the surface in his. Despite his black-as-night irises, he's always been so easy to read. “How's fourth grade treating you?”

I rake his sweaty platinum hair off his forehead. “Good. That place hasn't changed at all since we were there. It's a little scary.”

His eyes go vacant for a second before recovering their wicked gleam. “Not much around here ever changes.”

“Including my car. Frank needs plugs and an oil change. You have time to help?”

He lifts his free hand and runs a fingertip down my nose. “Nope, because there's something my best friend's not telling me. But after I've pried it out of her, I'm all Frank's.”

So, I guess I'm pretty easy to read too. I breathe deeply and shift in his arms. “You've told me some of the stuff that happened over there . . . when you were deployed, but I know there's stuff you haven't told me.”

He sits up, dumping me on the couch and reaching for a T-shirt on the floor. “Let's get Frank those plugs.”

As close as we are, he's refused to really open up to me about all the things that still haunt him. I think he thinks he's protecting me, but I don't want him to.

“Chuck,” I say, sitting up and tugging him back down to the couch by his hand. “Why won't you talk to me?”

He plunks down next to me and rolls his head onto the back of the couch. “Because what's past is past and nothing is going to change it. I'm dealing, so let's just forget it, okay?”

I settle into his side and he wraps an arm around my shoulders. “I just want to help you.”

He heaves a weary breath, and the devil-may-care front he puts up slips a little. “Ade, there are just some things a guy has to figure out on his own. But the fact that you care means a ton, and the best thing you can do if you want to help is to keep caring and not give up on me, okay?”

“Okay.” I burrow deeper into his side and swallow back my tears. “I love you.”

He presses his forehead into mine. “I know, Ade. Thanks.” He stands and holds out his hand. “Now let's get Frank those plugs.”

I roll Frank into the garage and we get greasy.

“Did you tell your dad about your new job yet?” I ask, picking the right plugs off the shelf near the workbench.

“Naw,” he answers from under the car. “So far it's only been one or two nights a week, so I'm keeping up with the work here. No need to panic him out of retirement just yet.”

I duck under the hood and pull the plug covers. “I can't believe you're an actual bodyguard.”

“A guy from my unit hooked me up,” he says, banging around under there. “They're looking for guys with military training. It's the right basic skill set.”

I grin. “Maybe some famous singer will fall in love with you, like in that old movie.”

“I'm sure as hell charming enough,” he says from under the car, and I hear the smile in his voice.

I laugh.

“Could happen,” he says, rolling the dolly out from under the car and shooting me an amused look.

“Have you bodyguarded anyone I've heard of?”

“Yes.”

I lift my head in surprise as he stands. I don't know who I thought needed bodyguards, but I was really just joking. “Who?”

“Can't say,” he says with a smirk. “It's in my employment contract. Discretion is a big deal, I guess. My boss, Elaine, says it's why she's got the clientele she does, and why they're willing to pay the big bucks for our services.”

I push off Frank's fender and nudge his shoulder. “I won't tell.”

His mouth tugs into a half smile. “I suppose if you guess, I didn't tell you.”

I spew every famous person I can think of off the top of my head. I'm about fifteen names in when he points at me.

“Did you see him in the halftime show of the Super Bowl?” he asks. “He's much shorter than you'd think in real life.”

“No way!”

He winks at me and pulls four quarts of oil from the rack.

But then something occurs to me. “Are they looking for anyone else? There's a new kid in my class whose family just moved here. I think his older brother just got out. He might need a job.”

He shrugs. “I can ask Elaine. I'll let you know.”

So, maybe there is something I can fix—or at least take the first step toward fixing. “Thanks, Chuck.”

Rob

When Lee and I got Sherm home from school, I went for a long run on the beach to clear my head . . . and get my libido in check. I don't know what it is about that backwater schoolmarm, but I swear I got hard just from the look she gave me as she backed toward the classroom door. She's got small town written all over her—Mary Ann when Ginger is more my style. But something in that look tells me she'd give me what my body undeniably wants from hers. She's fucking with my head, and right now, I need focus more than I ever have in my life.

I have to know who took out the contract before I can make any kind of move, but I'm so fucking isolated here.

I lean against the shingled side of the widow's walk, kick my foot onto the rail, stare at the list I've made. It's too short. I haven't dared contact Pop yet because the Feds catching wind I did is a one-way ticket out of WITSEC for all of us. But if I'm going to exact my revenge and secure my place at the head of the organization, I need guys loyal enough to kill for me . . . to die for me. Out of the entire Delgado crew, I got three I know I can trust. Me and three guys against the Savocas or any of Pop's associates equals four dead guys.

I bang the back of my head hard against the shingles and wonder what Pop knows. He can do a lot from inside, but if there's no one on the outside protecting his interests, his reach is limited. There's also the problem of the wider community losing a whole bucket load of respect for him when he broke omertà, the Mafia code of silence, and turned evidence on Victor Savoca. No one trusts him. He's damaged goods.

No one would have ever considered Felix Delgado a good guy. Well . . . except Mom. She always had a blind spot for all the crazy shit Pop was neck deep in. The truth? When she was alive, he wasn't quite so power hungry or bloodthirsty. That all changed the night she was run down outside the Bienville. It was a clear message to Pop. The Delgados had been horning in on Savoca “territory.” Strong-arming their connections. The Savocas couldn't let that stand and save face. Any shred of decency Pop had died that January night on the cold Chicago pavement along with his wife.

That was five years ago today.

Mom's murder was labeled accidental, but that's only because the Savocas have guys inside the Chicago PD. Everyone knows it was them. That was the point.

Which is why, when the FBI took our dad down for racketeering, he made sure Victor Savoca, the head of the Savoca family, went down with him.

People don't realize all that shit still happens. They watch
Goodfellas
and think the mob is ancient history. They think the only gangs they need to worry about now wear tats, gold chains, and low-riding jeans. They're wrong. The Mafia still rules Chicago. Probably always will. The violence isn't as in-your-face as it used to be, but plenty of people still “disappear.” Pop's responsible for his fair share of them. Hell, so am I.

I keep hoping whoever did this will show themselves somehow—maybe try to take out Pop or Savoca in lockup . . . something public that will clue me in to which side they're on. But the longer I sit here with my thumbs up my ass, the harder it's going to be take Chicago back.

I need answers.

I pull up my contacts, hit the number I've been avoiding.

“Callahan, FBI,” the disinterested voice says through my phone.

“I need information.”

“Who is this?”

“Your worst nightmare,” I tell him.

“Delgado. Just what I fucking needed today,” he mutters under his breath. “How the hell did you get my private cell number?”

“From Ulie. You don't remember your hard-on for my sister, Agent Callahan? When you gave her your card after Pop's trial and said ‘anything you need, give me a call'? Or have you moved on? Out of sight out of mind—”

“You know we have nothing to do with any of your WITSEC benefits,” he cuts in. “If you think you need more money, or you don't like where the US Marshals Service has located you, you need to take that up with their office or the DOJ.”

It's the FBI who promises you the world when they're talking you into Federal Witness Protection. What they don't tell you is that they're not the ones who are going to see that shit through. The US Marshals Service are the poor bastards who get stuck with that detail. But this FBI douche has the information I need, so today, he's going to deal with me whether he likes it or not.

“I need to get my family the hell out of here,” I say. “Who tried to kill us?”

“You're in witness protection, Delgado. What is it you think you can do with that information?”

“Who was it?” I press.

He blows a sigh into the phone. “We don't know.”

“Christ, you guys are useless.” I drag a hand down my face. “Then who was the goon? Who did I kill at the house?”

“His name was Andre Yankov,” he says. I hear him bang on computer keys in the background. “He was a gun for hire, but he might as well have been a ghost for all we could tell. His signature was leaving absolutely no trace. So, thanks, Delgado. You did us a huge favor taking him out.”

I want to pound my phone into the wall. This guy's a moron. “Follow the money trail.”

“It's always the first thing we check. We've never been able to trace any payment directly back to Yankov. He handled his money as cleanly as he handled his hits.”

“Who are some of his other marks?” Guilt by association. If he's taking down Savoca's enemies, that's all I need to know.

“In the last few years we suspect he's responsible for Nasca, Campo, Riva . . .”

Those all fall on our side of the line, so this guy was definitely in Savoca's pocket.

“. . . Sauro,” he continues, and my head snaps up. Richard Sauro was Victor Savoca's brother-in-law, which still doesn't rule out Savoca's involvement in his hit, but it's surprising. “. . . Baglio, Gray . . . and the one we're sure of but haven't been able to prove is Alderman Carpenter.”

Shit
. What everyone knows about the hit on Carpenter was that Pop contracted it. The good alderman was trying to tighten oversight and tariffs on the port. Pop wasn't having any of it. The port is Delgado territory. The increased regulations would have made doing business difficult. He tried reasoning with Carpenter, but when that proved fruitless, the politician went mysteriously missing.

This asshole was working for both sides.

“So, you see, it's not as easy to sort out as you might have hoped,” he says, master of the obvious that he is.

“Fuck,” I hiss.

“Indeed.”

I breathe a weary sigh. “What are my father's chances? He's got four years in the pen. Is he going to make it out?”

“He and Victor Savoca are in isolation at a secure facility, and your father could get out in less than four with his plea bargain. We're doing everything we can to make sure he stays alive while he's in custody. What happens after he's released is another story. Unless he's willing to formally go into WITSEC, we can't guarantee his safety.”

“Would the Feds send him here with us if he did?”

I'll be long gone by the time Pop gets out. Chicago will be back under the Delgado thumb and my family should be home. But on the off chance things don't go according to plan and my siblings are still here, I don't really want Pop here with them. It would put them at more risk of exposure.

“No. He definitely won't be joining the rest of you after he's released. And keep in mind you signed the WITSEC Memorandum of Understanding, which prohibits you from contacting any friends or members of your family. That includes your father.”

“But he's the one who set witness protection up for us when he turned evidence on Savoca.”

“Look, Rob. I know this is rough, but the best thing you can do is keep out of it and let us do our job,” he says, sounding suddenly human. “We leaked the story of the shooting. The news accounts of the ‘incident' are that you've fled the country. Blend in and keep your head down. That's the only way we can guarantee your safety. You get mixed up in trying to find out who holds the contract on your head, you're more likely to draw attention to yourself and your siblings. Just lay low and take care of your family.”

I rub at the headache forming behind my eyes. He has no idea what he's asking.

If I go back to Chicago, just me, and finish whoever started this, it could end up a full-out war. A bloodbath. It's what I've been groomed for. I've never doubted my path. But I'll never forget the look on Sherm's face that night, the horror when he discovered the monster I've become.

I tried to be the filter for him, the way Mom was for us, shielding us from the brutality. But that night, all the curtains came down. Everything I'd hoped he'd never know about me reared its ugly head. He saw the worst of it, right there on display in our living room. While the Transformers saved the world on the TV behind me, I crushed Sherm's world right in front of his eyes. I turned from the big brother he always looked up to into a monster in less time than it took me to snap that goon's neck.

I trudge down the stairs, head to the beach, and run again.

I'm used to being in total control. If I needed something done, I gave the order and it was done. This waiting, I have no idea what to do with. I've got to get back to Chicago, take back what's mine. I've got to show Pop I can handle the business—that I'm ready to take over. But if I do that now, it's a suicide mission. Me getting my head blown off the second I set foot in O'Hare airport isn't going to help my family.

I run and think. By the time I'm climbing the bluff back to the house, I've got my plan. A plan that could work with me and three guys.

When I hear an earsplitting rumble from up near the house, my heart leaps into my throat. I sprint up the path just as the noise cuts out. When I crest the driveway, Grant is tugging off a skull cap helmet. Next to him is a tricked-out Harley Low Rider.

“What the fuck?” I say, storming over to him.

He smirks at me. “Language, Rob.”

“What did you do?” I ask, keeping the building rage out of my voice.

“I bought some transportation. Got it off a guy cheap. What's the big deal?”

I give him a quick shove right in the center of the chest, knocking him into the bike. “The big deal is, you might as well have just painted a sign on your forehead that says ‘notice me!'”

He rolls his eyes. “Everyone drives Harleys. No one's going to notice me.”

“I'm glad you think this is just some fucking game, Grant. Glad none of this is cramping your style.”

He huffs out a humorless laugh, his disdained-filled glare fixed on me. “My style? I've got no fucking style, Rob. I've got shit. You made sure of that when you dragged us off to this fucking hellhole. This is one piece of my life that I can get back, and you're not taking it from me.”

The vise on my chest tightens. He's right. I've taken everything from him. A bike isn't really hurting anything. If it will help him get through this, then I need to back off.

I hold up my hands. “Fine. Keep the bike. But, Grant . . .” I shove a hand through my hair. “It's really important that you don't piss anyone off here. No fucking the locals.”

He jams his helmet onto the end of a handlebar, turns for the house. “I'm not fucking anyone, thanks to you.”

He slams through the front door and leaves me staring after him.

This family is going to implode if I don't get them out of here soon.